Monomyth
by conjurewithrisk
Summary: Percy Jackson is a troubled kid, and the universe seems to agree with that. Pre-Series.


**AN: See my profile for my explanation on why I haven't been on that much. Man, it feels _weird_ to be writing from his point-of-view again. Is it accurate ****enough? **

**Inspired by the Percy Jackson Musical, and the title is a reference to Joseph Campbell's model of the Hero's Journey.**

**Disclaimer**: I can't be Rick Riordan because he's living my dream of being a published writer

**Title**: Monomyth

**Word Count**: 1K

**Summary**: Percy Jackson is a troubled kid, and the universe seems to agree with that. Pre-Series.

* * *

At this rate, the fishes and I were having the start of a wonderful friendship.

It was a really nice fishtank filled with expensive plants and colorful rocks, and a statuette of some buff god with a trident that the clownfish weren't terrified of. I heard the voice of my Latin teacher in the back of my mind, _Poseidon, _the god of the sea and now apparently super bored fish.

I sighed and watched one circle around the sea god.

It must be nice to be a fish—no English teachers, no math homework, no step-fathers, just me in the water and waiting happily for my next meal. As a fish, I wouldn't have to worry with meeting the vice-principal again because of Nancy Bobfit and her knuckle-cracking groups of friends.

The fish stopped swirling and blew bubbles at me.

Great, I had sunk so low in my life that I was jealous of a _clownfish_.

"Mr. Jackson," the secretary said behind me. "Mr. Clancy is waiting for you."

I slowly got out of my seat and bowed my head. I couldn't make myself see the look of parental disappointment on her face, it would only remind me of what my mom would think once she got the news that I was in trouble again.

I opened the door to Vice-Principal Clancy's office and saw the figure that would grant me and my mom more doom.

Mr. Clancy was a weird patchwork of a person. He was stick-thin with gangly arms and legs that made awkward angles in his form-fitting jacket, the top of his head was so bald and shiny that it almost reflected the fluorescent lights in the room, and he had a drooping sort of moustache that deserved to be on the set of _Loony Tunes_.

You would think a guy looking like that would be comical and easy-going…

Instead he was standing tall with his long fingers folded behind his back, waiting for me to take a seat in front of his polished desk that was covered with expensive knickknacks.

I knew the drill by this point.

I sat down and tried my best to look as unthreatening as possible even though it wasn't my fault that I was here. It was _Nancy's_ fault. She and her friends were picking on one of the younger students again, and I had to stop it. No one deserved Bobofit and her cronies making them into a mess of tears and low self-confidence.

She and I had argued and I was soon pushed into a locker—the fight pinned on me as she spun this sob story on how _I _was bullying the kid.

The thought of his made me angry again. I dug my fingers into my thighs, the victorious look on her face when a teacher had dragged me away before I could return the favor.

After an eternity, Mr. Clancy sat down and opened my thick file. At a distance it could be mistaken for a phonebook. He made a 'tutting' sound as he read the latest addition. "Fights, Mr. Jackson, again?"

I nodded.

"Now, young man, we have told you that at Yancy Academy we don't tolerate such violent actions." He pushed his horn-framed glasses up his nose, magnifying his colorless eyes. "My, my, this looks like your third warning."

_But you tolerate bullying if it's from a rich student,_ I mentally said.

"And I see that you've stopped counseling," Mr. Clancy said with a frown. "Might I ask why?"

I shrugged. Ms. Harper was assigned to me after my first fight. We had spent most of a month just staring at each other. I had no clue what to say, and she had apparently just received her license to work in the school.

Now, I had issues. My dad had skedaddled after I was born, my grades sucked, Mom was married to this creep of a guy, and I basically had no future for me. Not with my grades or attitude problems. An hour a week in an office filled with cutesy posters of motivated puppies and ladybugs weren't going to fix all my problems.

"We didn't click," I muttered.

"Shame, we have gotten such positive responses about her." Mr. Clancy took his glasses off his nose and rubbed the lenses clean with a handkerchief. "And I am afraid that you are familiar with our policy by now, Mr. Jackson. This is your third fight, and with your grades, this means—"

I slapped my hands on the armrests of my chair and sat up "I get it! I'm a hopeless case. Now when does my mom find out?"

The faux-paternal expression on Mr. Clancy's face didn't waver. "When you leave I will send an email and a letter to her, alerting her of your academic probation."

I forced myself to try to say something, but the words ended up clogged in my throat. I understood. Knowing my luck, there would be another incident and I would be going to a different school next year. That meant more money wasted and the less of a future for me.

"Can—can I go?" I mumbled; the prickling pressure behind my eyelids was painful. It was one thing to get sent to the vice-principal's office, but it was another to be sent there and leave bawling like a baby.

Mr. Clancy pointed to the door and I got up to my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut and threw the door open and slammed it shut behind me, not caring about the noise that I was making. I stomped out of the office, my thoughts swirling around my head like a typhoon. I could still the disapproving faces of the faculty, Nancy Bobofit's sneer, all of the graded papers with a 'D' or an 'F' on them, but most of all I could see my mom.

My name is Percy Jackson. I'm on academic probation and I'm failing several classes.

Am I a troubled kid?

Well, according to life and the universe itself, the answer would be yes.

But there was a glimmer of hope. If I managed to pull up my grades and to not get into anymore fights, then maybe—just maybe—I'll be back again next year.

Maybe.


End file.
